If only we were leopard slugs,
we’d be an upside-down ballet, already
dangling from a string of our own mucous,
sensually embracing while wrapped
in each other’s gigantic blue *****.
You fertilizing me fertilizing you
as we spin like a disco ball
because this is where the party’s at.
And if you listen closely,
David Attenborough commentates
on the magic of our ***-
and woman, it would be ******* magic.
We’re hermaphrodites, I can dance this dance
with any leopard slug I see.
You should be flattered
I chose to get slimy with you.

Except we’re not leopard slugs.
Instead, there was a half-assed attempt at romance-
tonight, a bouquet on sale at the gas station-
and now I’m enduring bland small talk
over a meal I don’t want to pay for
that I pepper with lies to increase my chances
that you and I will get sticky in our own juices.
I envy the leopard slug.

We’ve only had the appetizer
but I think I should have just stayed home
and watched a documentary.